


Bossa Nova

by sayfilmagain



Series: These things take time [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Banter, Everyone Wants Illya, F/M, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, POV Gaby, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Post-Canon, everyone is bi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25711396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayfilmagain/pseuds/sayfilmagain
Summary: Gaby, Illya and Napoleon go to a New Year's party and then they go back to Gaby's apartment at the end of the night.- - -“Oh I see,” Illya said, “it’s normal to keep your friends waiting. By painting your toenails. That no one will see. In January.”“Oh I guarantee someone will see them,” Gaby pointedly placed her bare foot back on the edge of the tub, the silk parting either side of her thigh and bent once more to resume her work.“You have date for tonight?”Gaby scoffed, “I make it a rule never to bring a sandwich to a buffet.”“What does Napoleon always say? ‘Prepare for the worst, hope for the best’?”“Do you have a date, then, boy-scout?”“Of course,” Illya replied.
Relationships: Gaby Teller/Original Character(s), Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Original Female Character(s), Napoleon Solo/Original Female Character(s)
Series: These things take time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864750
Comments: 43
Kudos: 62





	1. The bastard made me spill my favourite nail polish in the bath

**Author's Note:**

> I promise Napoleon will be present in the next chapter! This story carries on from my previous fic 'Telling jokes lands you in the Gulag', but you don't need to have read that one to understand this one!

Gaby answered the door in nothing but her silk dressing gown, her hair still wet from the bath and Illya frowned immediately.

“You’re not ready.” 

“Is it nine o’clock already?” she feigned innocence and walked away to turn down the radio in the kitchen. She left him at the door, making her way back into the bathroom at the end of the hall. 

Illya stepped inside, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his jacket, casting his eyes around the bare furnishings. It was the first time he’d ever been in Gaby’s Minetta Street apartment, although she’d technically been living in it since they’d wrapped up in Rome, several months ago. She suspected Illya’s place, somewhere in Brooklyn as far as she knew, was even barer than hers. They didn’t exactly spend much time in New York, the interval between missions had always been short. Gaby spent her scant days off recovering her sanity and cherishing the rare time alone. 

But since they had finished their last field mission in Japan in early December after the whirlwind of Istanbul-Paris-Stockholm, the three of them had been making sense of their next assignment at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. It had been unspeakably odd to no longer exist in enforced proximity. No one was pretending to be married or related to anyone, they weren’t sharing bathrooms and three meals a day, their voices weren’t literally in each other’s ears. They had all retreated into a bizarre coldness at first, behaving like co-workers in the unprecedented new context of the office, none of them knowing how to behave under the heedless eyes of people who seemed normal. After a couple weeks of going their separate ways every evening at five thirty, it had been inevitable that they should eventually ‘hang out’. 

“I assume Napoleon will be late.”

Gaby jumped nearly out of her skin, spilling her nail polish. She had been bent double, painting her little pinkie toe and hadn’t heard Illya approach on silent socked feet. He was leaning on the doorjamb of the bathroom now, watching her evenly without a hint of humour on his face. He was dressed, like always, quietly. The knit of his ubiquitous black wool turtleneck that would look right at home in Greenwich Village was stretched just a little across his chest when he crossed his arms. His head was tilted slightly to one side offering the barest of glimpses at the lines of his throat.

“Yes, he’ll be late,” Gaby snapped, recovering the nail polish, “because he’s _normal_.”

“Oh I see,” Illya said, “it’s normal to keep your friends waiting. By painting your toenails. That no one will see. In January.”

“Oh I guarantee _someone_ will see them,” Gaby pointedly placed her bare foot back on the edge of the tub, the silk parting either side of her thigh and bent once more to resume her work.

“You have date for tonight?”

Gaby scoffed, “I make it a rule never to bring a sandwich to a buffet.”

“What does Napoleon always say? ‘Prepare for the worst, hope for the best’?”

“Do you have a date, then, boy-scout?” 

“Of course,” Illya replied, turning away and going into the little kitchen, his low voice carrying as if the molecules of the air were afraid he’d get mad at them if they didn’t get his message to Gaby, “I believe _normal_ people find it embarrassing to go to parties—unaccompanied.” 

There were faint sounds of the kettle being filled and the gas turned on and Gaby couldn’t help rolling her eyes. Only Illya would make himself a cup of tea while waiting to go to a New Year’s party when there was a bottle of wine open on the table. 

“There’s a big difference between ‘normal’ and ‘ordinary’, Illya,” Gaby called over her shoulder, annoyed at herself for letting him annoy her so easily.

“Is there? Where do you keep the tea?” 

She could hear him opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen and she could imagine his impassive face managing to look entirely unmoved and judgemental all at once. Predictably, when he opened the only stocked cupboard with the coffee, teabags, sugar, and —

“—Saccharina,” he tutted, “Gaby, you know this stuff is basically poison. You should treat your body better than this.” 

Gaby poked her head out of the bathroom just in time to see him throw the whole package into the trash and decided to ignore him, going back to the mirror to start applying her make-up. Illya didn’t seem to mind. He just went about the kitchen making himself a cup of tea and whistling a vaguely familiar tune cheerfully, no doubt feeling that he’d gotten his own back at Gaby for what he perceived as disrespect. 

Once Gaby had dabbed her lips on a square of toilet paper and double-checked that her mascara was even, she headed for her bedroom to slip into her dress. She found Illya standing in the window of her sitting room, the ledge of which was crammed with an assortment of books she’d collected in the last few months. He had a copy of a flimsy Ian Fleming paperback dwarfed in his immense hands. He was, once again, tutting. Gaby snatched it away from him.

“Stop snooping.”

“You know he was a pencil-pusher. Never saw any action.”

“I liked the movie. It’s entertainment, Illya. We’re not all always studying— ah— improving ourselves.” Gaby stuffed the book between two books of Russian stories. 

“You like your men hairy, then? Little blue shorts?” Illya’s eyebrows did a little up-and-down that Gaby had never seen them do for anyone other than Napoleon. Gaby realised that they were standing closer than usual, his body bent down towards hers, a smile was threatening to tug the corner of his mouth. The weak overhead light was casting long shadows from his thick lashes.

“Zip me up,” she said, turning away from him and pulling her still damp hair over her shoulder. She felt the ghost of his touch at the small of her back. Of course he didn’t fumble, his clever fingers found the tiny zipper straight away among the sequins. 

“Of course you don’t have to go to the cinema, if that’s your taste. Solo is surely an improvement on Bond.”

He sounds far too pleased with himself and Gaby is annoyed that she hasn’t managed to tease him once all evening. He should have been disarmed when she had answered the door in a state of undress and several times since. He certainly shouldn’t have had a date lined up for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first James Bond film starring Sean Connery, Dr. No, came out in the spring of ’63. Bond doesn’t actually go shirtless or wear the little blue shorts Illya refers to until ’65 in Thunderball, so this is an anachronism. I think it's worth it for the sake of Illya getting to say the phrase 'little blue shorts'.


	2. The silly fool still refuses to dance with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby finds one or two things out about Illya’s mystery woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing about parties is almost as confusing, potentially awkward and disorienting as going to them. I hope I managed to convey an atmosphere without actually introducing loads of characters we’ll never see again!

Illya’s date was an impossibly tall, velvet-skinned Brazilian goddess named Tamyres. And a jazz singer, apparently.They swung by a club called the Village Gate on Bleeker Street to pick her up, Gaby and Illya each throwing back a shot at the bar while they waited for her to emerge from a smoky green-room.

Illya had been scowling at the back of Gaby’s head when Napoleon had called to tell them he was running late, two hairpins sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Thankfully the phone had been just within her reach. 

“... and I’ll meet you in Washington Square at ten thirty.”

“Okay,” Gaby had answered, while Illya pinned her updo securely into place with two dextrous twists of his fingers, “we’ll meet you there.”

Which meant that Gaby was sitting next to Illya at the bar, no one to share a look with when the Amazonian beauty ran her long fingers through Illya’s hair and kissed him on either corner of his mouth, not even trying to land on his smooth cheeks.

“I like your hair like this,” she said, by way of greeting, pushing it away from his forehead unencumbered by cream.

“I know,” Illya replied, not quite smiling, his own hands around Tamyres’s waist. Gaby wondered idly if she had stepped into a dream.

“You must be Gaby,” Tamyres said, turning to shake hands, her smile friendly, her voice only lightly accented, “Oh! I love your dress. I feel overly done up, but I don’t think I have time to change. I have another gig tonight.”

“No more getting ready,” Illya said firmly, taking Tamyres’ coat from her and helping her into it.

“I think you look fantastic,” Gaby said, gesturing at Tamyres’ floor-length velvet gown. 

“And your hair!” Tamyres went on after acknowledging her compliment with a coy turn of her head, and Gaby had to grudgingly admit to herself that she seemed entirely genuine. 

“Illya’s doing, actually.”

“He’s a man of hidden talents,” Tamyres said with a wide smile, touching Illya’s cheek again. 

“I used to help my mother. Come on. Out. Let’s go. We’re late to being late.”

The women took each other's arms as they stepped back out onto the street and Illya walked one pace behind them all the way to the grand house on Washington Square where Napoleon’s friend was throwing a New Year’s party. The city was alive with revellers, thrumming with excess energy after the many subdued weekends that had followed Kennedy’s assassination more than a month before. It had shaken the Americans harder than anyone could have predicted. Even Napoleon had snapped at Illya who’d happened to be the person to give him the news during their mission in Japan. Finally, the tension that had persisted since then seemed to be breaking.

Napoleon had a date as well, and by the state of his collar it was easy to guess why they were late. The five of them made their way into a house bursting with people after a round of introductions which had ended with Illya looking smug at Napoleon’s astonished expression only after Tamyres and Napoleon’s date, Hettie, had turned away. Gaby rolled her eyes for what she was sure wouldn’t be the last time that evening. 

In fact, the unmistakable little simmer of jealousy that had started up as soon as Illya had mentioned dates made Gaby’s keen eyes flick to Tamyres all night. Over frankly delicious rum cocktails, Gaby learned that Tamyres split her time between gigs in New York and recording studios in LA. At exactly midnight, Gaby saw that Tamyres was not the sort of woman who shied from kissing her man in public, and she was both tall enough and bold enough to make sure he kissed her back. In a break in breathless laughter inspired by something Napoleon said, Gaby found out that Tamyres was a year from forty and willing to admit it. Between spirited rounds of dancing with Columbia students, shaggy beatniks and well dressed Europeans, she noticed that Tamyres was gregarious and unselfconscious and could talk with almost anyone. In an interlude in a conversation about how they’d apparently missed the man of the moment, Sinatra Jr.*, Gaby gleaned that Illya and Tamyres were neighbours and had met while grocery shopping. 

And Gaby also learned that, even on a date, Illya was reluctant to talk and even more reluctant to smile. But instead he touched: his hand covering the nape of Tamyres’ neck, pressing the small of her back; his fingers ghosting over her sides, brushing her thighs, resting on her knee. The more he drank, the more he touched, the more daring his gaze became until, at one point in the night, Gaby got caught in its hungry crossfire and felt a shiver spread out from her belly into the tips of her toes, the ends of her hair. She remembered him telling her once, his voice shaking her bones, “You know I’m not a monk.” That New Year’s night, Gaby finally had a good reason to believe him. 

Thankfully or regrettably, shortly after that, Illya had left to walk Tamyres to her second gig of the night (only after Napoleon had made him swear on his mother’s life that he would come back). True to his word, Illya did come back, cheeks pink from the cold, mouth red from kisses. As soon as Gaby found him in the slightly diminished crowd, she dragged him bodily into the kitchen where someone was playing a pretty Spanish tune on the guitar and a few people were swaying. But the party was breaking up and Illya was saved even from having to protest when the guitarist's boyfriend came to tell her their cab had arrived. 

Illya caught Gaby yawning when she thought he wasn’t looking and he gripped her shoulder. 

“It’s time to go home,” he said, and his tone allowed zero room for argument. They found Napoleon smoking on the front steps, talking to either old friends or new acquaintances—always hard to tell with him—Hettie nowhere in sight. Without having to talk about it, the three of them went back to Gaby’s place where Illya immediately fiddled with the radio dial until he found something sultry. Napoleon had flung his shoes and tie into a corner, Gaby was pulling pins out of her hair. They talked about the night and settled, Illya on his back on the rug with his hands behind his head, Gaby with her head against Napoleon's thigh on the couch. 

And then Gaby learned one more thing about Tamyres when Napoleon said, maybe a touch tentatively, “You know, Peril— I think your girlfriend is married.”

Gaby stiffened, turning her eyes but not her head to Illya’s long body stretched out languidly on the floor. Napoleon's hands stilled where they had been combing through her slightly sweaty hair. 

“I danced with her. You can see the tan line where her wedding band should be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you consider that a cliffhanger? :)
> 
> \- - -
> 
> *Frank Sinatra Jr. was briefly kidnapped in December of ‘63. His kidnappera demanded a ransom of $240,000 but they received about $15 less, which is an absurd detail of this mad story which you should google. In this story I imagine he went home to New York and dined our on the story!
> 
> Also, there’s a mention of JFK’s assassination, which took place on the 22nd of November that same year. 
> 
> If you haven’t already read it, I highly recommend cactusonastair’s story ‘Provenance’ which has an amazing take on a JFK assassination conspiracy theory and is maybe my favourite fic in the fandom!


	3. These idiots could argue about anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio have a chat. Illya feels attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your thoughtful comments! I really enjoy reading them!

The pause between Napoleon’s two hesitant statements and Illya’s reply was probably no longer than pauses typically were in conversations with Illya. He often measured his words and knew how powerful, even unnerving, a silence could be. 

“Well discerned, Cowboy,” he said finally, less like a reaction and more like he was testing out a word Gaby knew he’d learned recently. She’d seen it in the margin of the book he read on the subway just a few days before in the office. He left a little space between the ’s’ and ‘c’ and Gaby wanted to slip off the couch and over to him, right into that gap. 

“You knew,” she said.

“Of course I knew.”

“And you’re alright with that?” Napoleon was still tense under Gaby’s head. Clearly he’d had enough to drink that evening that he couldn’t quite tuck everything he said firmly into witty nonchalance. The lines of his neck stood taut and Gaby felt like she could read his expression just from his rigid, lovely jaw.

“Yes.”

“You’re okay with sleeping with another man’s woman?” 

“She doesn’t belong to her husband, Solo.” 

“I can’t believe that’s how you feel about it.” Napoleon was scandalised. Gaby smiled at the ceiling. 

Illya shifted up onto his elbow so that he could face the two of them on the couch. His eyebrows were starting to furrow, a familiar expression that could signal anything from confusion to discomfort to annoyance. His hair was sticking up a little at the back. Prone on the rug, his endless legs crossed at the ankle, he looked younger than himself — a more vulnerable Illya than Gaby was used to. Did he want them to approve? Had he been nervous to let them meet Tamyres?

“I mean _you_? Cheating?” Napoleon was still astounded.

“Actually, as I understand it, their marriage is not exclusive.”

“What, so you think the husband knows about you? And I suppose he’s thrilled about it.”

Gaby was secretly delighted that Napoleon was making such a fuss. It left her free to pretend she wasn’t as surprised as he was. 

Illya heaved an irritated sigh. “I don’t know what particulars of their arrangement is— are,” he said, “He lives in Los Angeles. She is there often, here sometimes. I doubt she telephones every time we see each other to give updates.”

Napoleon shook his head incredulously, “Gaby, do you believe this?”

“It sounds like a lovely arrangement for Tamyres.” 

Napoleon snorted, “You two would fucking love to rewrite all of society, wouldn’t you.” He wore derision well. 

“You are being awful hypocrite, Solo,” Illya said, matter-of-factly, “How many married women have you—“ He hesitated. 

“He can’t even say it! _Slept with! Had sex with! Fucked!_ ” Napoleon said, and Gaby sat up because he was no longer comfortable to lie on. Normally, she would have purely been amused by their bickering — even when they were just expressing interest in each other or solving a problem, her two boys did it through jabs and parries — but tonight she felt invested in everything Illya was revealing. How could she feel at times like she knew his every twist and corner and at others that she could see only a featureless, blank wall?

“You two are both completely ridiculous.”

“Hey! I didn’t say anything,” Gaby said.

“I like Tamyres. She speaks plainly. This _arrangement_ suits me.”

Napoleon shook his head again and Gaby chewed her lip, “If you say so.”

“Gaby. What we do is dangerous. We could die tomorrow. We lie to everyone we meet but each other,” Gaby’s heart swelled, unbidden, at those words and she felt Napoleon’s wide hand settle on her shoulder and knew he’d heard it too, “Don’t you see how this is perfect?”

Napoleon wasn’t letting it go, “But you wanna kill him, though, don’t you? Surely you weren’t made to share.”

Illya was getting annoyed now, “Actually, if we speak of women like they’re _things_ , I was very much made to share and you very much weren’t.”

Gaby had to laugh at the way Napoleon scoffed at that, “Jesus, could we have a single conversation that doesn’t come back to how you’re top of the class at being a commie? What, they train you up to pass your wives around at the weekends ba—”

“No one passed Tamyres around. She made a choice.”

“Have you considered that she might be a spy?” Gaby asked idly and she was reminded that Illya had had a lot to drink that night when he turned a nakedly hurt look on her.

“What? Married, single, young, old— women throw themselves at Napoleon every day and _one_ shows interest at me and I must be mark?”

“That’s not what I meant, Illya,” Gaby gave in to the yearning to get closer to him and got as far as the very edge of the couch before she stopped herself. Napoleon was looking smug next to her, she could feel it, but her own eyes had gone wide, “But with everything that’s happened in Brazil these last couple of years, don’t you wonder—?”

“We always wonder,” Illya said.

“She _is_ gorgeous,” Napoleon said, leaning back and smiling wickedly now that he’d remembered himself, his hands looking very eloquent as he reached for his glass.

“Not all beautiful people are secret agents,” Illya said.

“But you have to admit, she does seem much more like the type of woman who would go for me than for you.”

“Some women are smart enough to see you for the conceited bastard you are.”

“Me, for instance,” Gaby said. She’d absently moved to the edge of the coffee table, so she could smile directly down at Illya. Napoleon feigned a wounded look. 

“I just meant that she seems like she’d like someone with experience. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Illya’s face was impassive again, but the colour was rising to his cheeks, “I don’t know where you two get this ridiculous idea that I’m blushing virgin.”

“Because you’re blushing, darling,” Gaby said, reaching out to brush his cheek, fondly. He sat up, apparently no longer comfortable enough to lounge. If Gaby had been less drunk she would’ve been surprised he’d taken that whole conversation lying down.

“Talking about sex and make— do— having it are two different things,” Illya said, clenching his jaw.

“And yet, somehow, I still can’t picture you touching someone without snapping them in half,” Napoleon said. Gaby raised an eyebrow at him, at the self-satisfied way he took a sip of his wine.

Ilya’s left hand clenched at his side.

“I bet I’m better at it than you, Cowboy.”

“Sure,” Napoleon said, his eyes actually twinkling.

“I mean it. People like to be listened to when— in intimate moment. Someone as self-obsessed as you is—”

“Oh, we all know you’re great at following orders, Peril.” Even though Napoleon was clearly joking, there was a mean edge to his words, “I’m sure you’d do fine if someone wrote you a brief to read and you had some time to study.”

“God, you two could make a contest out of anything.”

“It’s all well and good to make bold claims. Pity we can’t put this particular wager to the test,” Napoleon said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These three sure can talk!


	4. The prick wasn't supposed to mention that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby reflects on Illya and Napoleon's competitive natures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little longer for this update, but you wouldn't believe the weather we had over the weekend! It was definitely one for being outside. I hope this chapter won't disappoint.
> 
> Should this be tagged slow-burn do you think at this stage? One-night slow-burn? :D

Gaby had played witness to many physical contests between her two boys, and had always done so with a mix of loud resignation and secret enjoyment. She knew definitively that Napoleon was the better marksman. (But only because Illya had taken a bad blow to the head during a military operation at eighteen which had impaired his eyesight.) Illya was certainly better at hand to hand combat and could disarm Napoleon within moments if he stepped within Illya’s reach. (This was _obviously_ only because of his freakishly long limbs, which gave him a clear advantage over Napoleon.) Napoleon could lift heavier things, if pressed, but Illya could carry and throw heavy things farther. Illya could run faster and jump higher than Napoleon, but Napoleon was the better swimmer.

These shows of strength and skill usually happened during lulls in missions. The work of a spy was terribly tedious with occasional bursts of death-defying excitement. The three of them were frequently stuck somewhere disagreeable: monitoring the movements of bureaucrats, sorting through stolen documents, waiting for instructions, watching their enemies. Illya was the pillar of patience that kept them from collapsing into complete despair. He never seemed to get bored, never complained of discomfort, never needed anything or anyone. Gaby had thought, in the beginning, that it was a sort of stupidity — that his life of servitude to the Soviets had stultified his intellect, made him into a sort of machine. 

She had discovered quickly that the reverse was true. Illya had a rich inner life which he guarded jealously. He was never bored because his mind was never still. He was always contemplating something deeply: reading a novel slowly as if savouring every word, mulling over some point of philosophy, ruminating on the motivations of their enemies, considering the state of world politics. And when he was too tired or distracted for that, he was solving puzzles: reconstructing the words to a song he’d only heard twice, beating imaginary adversaries at chess, solving cyphers, learning French. Where Gaby could only shift his immovable focus enough for a bit of verbal sparring, Napoleon was able to properly unsettle him. They only knew the little bit they knew about his private cerebral wanderings because Napoleon was so good at insisting he tell them what he was thinking.

Because Napoleon was impatient, impulsive, and unable to keep himself still unless it was a matter of life and death. He would talk to anyone and everyone, sometimes to get information out of them, often just to see what they thought, what they were like. He invented stories, imagined ridiculous scenarios, asked impossible questions. He flirted shamelessly with women old enough to be his mother. He sang the first halves of countless songs. He taught Gaby card tricks and learned how to fix a fast watch in return. Gaby had thought him superficial and completely flighty at first but had quickly discovered him to be intensely thoughtful and charmingly, unexpectedly neurotic. It was hard not to love him. He’d probably told Gaby the plot of every film he’d ever seen in fits and starts. Napoleon was always drawing parts of faces, details of buildings, and intricate labyrinths in the corners of bits of paper and on the backs of envelopes. Gaby and Illya’s bookmarks were often their favourite scraps produced by his restless hands.

But by far Napoleon’s favourite pastime was getting under Illya’s skin, and he was better at that, in a way, than even at picking locks. At first it had been easy, but Illya was too smart to be goaded by the same tricks again and again. And the more time he spent with Napoleon and Gaby, on this side of the Iron Curtain, the more Russia’s iron grip on him eased. It had always been a dictator’s grasp, strengthened by fear and misinformation. Poor Illya had thought he’d known the extent of the ways he and his fellow countrymen were lied to and manipulated — had made a tenuous peace with it in the name of an ideology he genuinely believed in, to some extent. But his acute mind saw that he’d been betrayed by his government in even deeper ways than he’d thought and Napoleon could no longer get a rise out of him by insulting or belittling his government. That kind of talk merely made him even more quiet and contemplative.

Napoleon wouldn’t have been interested in provoking him if it were easy, anyway. So instead, when the boredom overtook him, Gaby was usually treated to an extended show. Napoleon making little lunges into Illya’s calm space, disturbing him, asking for reasonable things, graduating to silly things, persisting when anyone else would turn and run for cover, watching his impassive face for any sign of a crack, darting forward and back, his mind as nimble as his fingers. He’d poke and prod and tickle until Illya snapped and found himself carrying the couch from the safe-house across a river on his back, berating himself for allowing something so ridiculous to happen. 

And, invariably, Gaby was asked to referee, to make the final judgement.

It was only natural that the idea, the logical conclusion of what Napoleon had suggested, would occur to all of them in the same moment. Gaby felt a little colour touch her cheeks, Napoleon’s sharp, brash gaze telling her he’d thought of it too. Illya started to laugh.

Gaby turned her eyes to look down at him and felt a second squeeze of her heart at the rare and beautiful sight of his laughing face. His eyes were narrowed, crinkled up at the corners, and his lips were drawn back so that she could see his sharp teeth. The sound came from his chest, his voice low in a different way than Napoleon’s, not because it came from deep down, but just because he was _big_. His laugh was big too.

Gaby sank to the floor so that she was sitting right next to him on the rug, his laughter making her laugh too. Napoleon was chuckling indulgently from his place on the couch.

“Is that my cue to leave the two of you alone?” he asked, when Illya was wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, his spare hand resting on Gaby’s knee.

“What are you talking about?” Gaby turned to him, surprised at herself for how badly she didn’t want him to leave, even though his suggestion made her chest feel a little tight. Because maybe it _would_ finally happen tonight if Napoleon left now.

“It’s a twenty minute walk back to my place. I’d put next month’s salary on it that he’s done before I get my key in the door,” Napoleon put his wineglass on the coffee table, getting to his feet.

“Sit down, Cowboy,” Illya said, still grinning, “you don’t want to go.”

“Oh, I don’t?” Napoleon said, he was stepping across the room to his coat.

“No, you don’t. If you wanted to leave, you wouldn’t be trying to fight with me.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes, shrugging into his coat, but he was moving slowly. 

Gaby stood and gripped his lapels, “Come on, Napoleon. Sit down again. You haven’t even finished your wine.”

“I—”

“Sit down, Napoleon,” Illya said again, leaning back on his hands. His posture was inviting, his body all relaxed lines, the smile lingering in his eyes even though it had left his lips, “you shouldn’t go when you don’t want to.”

Gaby looked up into Napoleon’s eyes again and she saw something unexpected there for a brief moment. Maybe she was projecting her own confused longing onto him. She put a hand against his jaw where stubble was threatening after a long night.

“Stay,” she said, and he ducked his head a little to kiss her cheek, like someone saying goodbye, his lips featherlight.

“Fine,” he said, unexpectedly, “I’ll stay, since Illya wants me to stay so badly.”

“It’s a good night,” Illya said, with the same pleased expression he had sometimes when he picked up a new book.

“You really mean that, don’t you, Peril?” Napoleon said, fondness creeping into his voice. All three of them were on the floor now, Napoleon leaning back against the coffee table. 

“I do,” Illya said, leaning back on his elbow and reaching for his wineglass on the windowsill, a long beautiful line of lateral muscle. Gaby tore her eyes away just in time to catch Napoleon looking as well, from under his lashes. “It’s nice that we are all three of us here. And we chose to be here.”

He couldn’t quite meet either of their eyes after saying something that sweet, so Gaby just shifted a little closer to him and agreed, “It is nice.”

“So, Gaby, now I’m staying does this mean you’ll be playing referee again tonight?” Napoleon said, ruining the moment with his acrobatic eyebrows.

“Shall I draw up score-sheets?” Gaby asked primly, gesturing that he pass her wineglass, after she’d scratched the place where a pin had been pulling at her hair, her hands suddenly feeling empty. Illya snorted next to her, but a second later she felt his steady fingers gently pulling the pins loose.

“How many events?” Napoleon asked, filling it before handing it over.

“Well there’s kissing,” she said, holding out her thumb, “and then— actually, I feel like listing events is a bad idea, giving too much away.”

“We don’t want Cowboy thinking your instructions are too detailed. He thinks I have no imagination,” Illya said, with a low laugh, his fingers now pressing lightly against Gaby’s skull.

“There has to be some structure or else how will Gaby score us fairly?” Napoleon said, leaning his elbow against the coffee table.

“The scoring can’t be fair,” Illya said mildly, “Gaby likes me. She only tolerates you.”

Napoleon laughed. He’d tried for a moment to keep up the joke, his brow furrowing as he’d tried to think of a retort. But in the end he laughed and Gaby realised, even as Illya’s fingers against the nape of her neck nearly made her close her eyes with pleasure, that a laugh like that from Napoleon was almost as rare as Illya’s had been. He’d snorted unattractively and thrown his head back. 

“Fine,” he said, “fine. You win, Peril. I get it. You’re not the old maid we thought you were.”

“That was easy.” Gaby could hear Illya’s smile. His hands had moved to either side of her spine now, his grip much stronger, perfectly balanced between painful and divine.

“Mmm. You’re wrong, Illya. I actually really like Napoleon,” she said, before a long, pleased exhale.

“Maybe, but you like me better.” Illya sounded very confident and Gaby was startled into laughter. Napoleon chuckled too.

“You sound very sure.”

“Or maybe you don’t _like_ me more, but you do _want_ me more.”

Gaby whipped around onto her knees, slapping Illya’s hands away. He held them up, palms out, surprised. He was smiling, a little colour in his face. Gaby put her hand on his broad chest. His heart was thrumming hard against her palm, she felt it straight away.

“Rude!” she said, because he’d quietly, politely rejected her so many times and they weren’t supposed to talk about that. They were all quiet for a moment, Gaby almost breathing heavily. Wanda Jackson came on over the radio and Gaby almost expected Illya to extricate himself from her, to go and turn it up because he loved _Funnel of Love._ But he didn’t, he just stared back at Gaby until Wanda sang that no matter how much she ran and hid the Funnel of Love got her anyway.

“I think it’s just because you think I’ll always say ‘no’ and you know Napoleon would always say ‘yes’. We always want what we think we can’t have.”

“What do you know about want?” Gaby asked, almost trembling with anger, anticipation, embarrassment, want, confusion, she wasn’t sure. She was acutely aware of Napoleon’s eyes on her back.

Illya didn’t answer. He just closed the distance between them, tilting his head to one side to press his lips to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love the Wanda Jackson tune that I mention in this chapter. I really recommend you check it out -- it's hard to believe it came out in the 60's, it sounds like it could be in the charts now. Guy Ritchie used it in "Rock'n'Rolla". You might have noticed that I write Illya as a feminist, in ideology at least if not in practice. So I'm sure he would have liked women singers who defied expectations.


	5. This moron really thinks I'm joking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All pretence of joking is laid aside.

Gaby’s fingers closed around a handful of the wool of Illya’s jumper and pulled. She instantly wanted _more_ , the light brush of his lips against hers was emphatically not enough. But Illya was, of course, immovable. Gaby had done the wrong thing by pulling, it was like tugging on the reins of a mule who’d made up its mind not to move, utterly pointless.

And she was trembling, because despite being so distressingly not enough, the kiss was somehow far from chaste. Illya’s tongue found the swell of Gaby’s lower lip. He kissed her open mouth briefly before he moved on to her jaw, her neck, and back again. Instead of the steady, even, singular attention Gaby might have expected of Illya, he was being constantly distracted. The taste of her skin led him to her earlobe which he bit down on, just enough to make Gaby’s fingers clench in his hair. And then he was gone, burying his face in her breasts, breathing in deeply, while Gaby kissed the crown of his head. He wanted everything at the same time and it was exhilaration to know it rather than just thinking it. Gaby was heaving, coiled with tense desire and yet languid in his arms. His teeth gripped ever so briefly, every touch fleeting. They were open-mouthed, their hot breath mingling, both of them practically panting. Gaby’s dress was rucking up under Illya’s hands which stroked her back, her sides, pulling her closer, across his lap, rather than coming to her. 

Gaby changed tack. She wrapped her legs around his middle, twisted her arms around his neck, buried her fingers in the soft hairs at the back of his head. Her body was touching his everywhere, and everywhere they touched Gaby felt his heat and power humming into her, and still she covered almost nothing of him. And still he resisted. So that when Gaby tried to deepen the kiss, Illya turned his head to one side. He was looking over Gaby’s shoulder, his clear eyes unreadable. Gaby nearly felt the hairs stand up at the nape of his neck.

Napoleon whistled through his teeth from where he was sitting at the edge of the coffee table and Gaby turned her head sharply to look at him; self-satisfied bastard.

“You two really haven’t,” he said. He should have been laughing, but he only looked incredulous. And hungry. 

“Of course not,” Illya said, sounding annoyingly exactly like he always did.

“I was sure you must’ve. In Rome, every time I walked into a room you two were—”

“In Rome, we weren’t coworkers,” Illya said, as if that would put an end to the matter. 

“So you really never have,” Napoleon said, low and disbelieving. He was just as unabashedly invested now as he had been earlier when grilling Illya about Tamyres. It was very unlike him to ask questions so transparently; he normally played his hand very close to his chest.

Gaby groaned and pressed her forehead against the expanse of Illya’s breast. She was still astride him, her thighs still tense against his hard sides. He was stroking her back gently as if she’d been crying in his arms, not trying to climb him and cover every millimetre of his skin with herself. 

“You’ve said that already,” Gaby snapped at Napoleon.

She was acutely aware in that moment that they truly never had. It felt as if her body was living all at once every single moment of tension that had ever passed between them. She remembered tackling him onto a couch in Rome and being wrapped around him just like this, struggling to wake herself. She remembered all the times his usually eloquent fingers had stuttered before or after touching her bare skin. Every almost-kiss, relieved embrace, brush of the hands. It was all rushing through her and she felt crazed.

Gaby and Illya had both grown up in versions of the same oppressive system but, apart from that, their experiences had been very different. Still, she had been able to understand on some level that his nature, which she’d found to be radical and insurgent, was something he’d been squashing his entire life, conforming carefully to the rules of a regime that reached into the very minds of its subjects to control them. So Illya fought every day with desires he wasn’t supposed to have, and until tonight and Tamyres, Gaby had thought the Party had been winning its battles. Now that she knew it wasn’t, it seemed criminal that he should still be holding back just because they worked together.

“Well,” Napoleon said, “now I really should go.”

“No,” Gaby put her hands on Illya’s broad shoulders and pushed herself up onto her feet, his palms smoothing her dress over her thighs on her way up. Illya had allowed himself one of those confused or annoyed or angry or uncertain looks before Gaby turned away from him. “Your turn,” she said to Napoleon.

“Gaby!” his mouth gaped, his eyes wide and sincere for once and Gaby felt the corner of her mouth lift into a smile. She heard Illya’s low scoff behind her.

“You’re afraid, Cowboy?” his voice was lower than usual if that was possible and Gaby nearly shivered at the sound of it. She was standing in front of Napoleon, and even sitting on the low coffee table his eyes weren’t far from being level with hers.

“Gaby, come on. Joke’s over,” Napoleon said, but his eyes were bright and he was touching one of her hands, almost idly. 

“Do you want him to think forever that he has some kind of magical power over me?” Gaby asked, because she really was annoyed with Illya’s infinite reserve of self-control. 

“Gaby, we’ve talked about this,” Illya said from his place on the floor, “All three of us have cheated death together. How many people on the planet work as closely as we do. It’s crazy, tense, emotional job. There’s nothing magic about it. And two of you, always with heads together, always with your secrets, always touching. I saw you dancing with Napoleon tonight. I’m not so egotistical to think you only feel for me.”

“Oh so if all of us have cheated death together, does that mean you wanna stick your tongue down Napoleon’s throat?” Gaby couldn’t resist shooting over her shoulder, even as Napoleon’s other hand reached out and took her wrist. 

Illya made a face like someone sniffing spoilt milk and Gaby found herself laughing at him, which made her feel a bit better.

“You read De Beauvoir and Foucault very selectively,” she said, just as Illya started speaking, “I’m not defect—”

He cut himself off and looked at Gaby’s smiling face instead of allowing himself to take in Napoleon’s cocked eyebrow, “Go on. Let’s see who scores higher on your scale, Gaby.”

Napoleon raised Gaby’s hand to his face. She touched his jaw the way she had while they’d swayed to an old jazz record much earlier in the night. Of all the things that were undeniably beautiful about Napoleon Solo, the thing Gaby always coveted the most was his sharp, precisely cut jaw. She never lost an opportunity to lean in the bathroom door while he shaved, the bright blade of a razor sliding over impeccable lines, and she had a feeling he knew.

“Beautiful Gaby,” he said now, while her fingers lightly brushed his rough skin, “the two of you are always stirring up revolutions.”

For the second time that evening Gaby found herself looking into a pair of blue eyes while she felt another on her back. It was impossible for them to forget another person was in the room, their lives often depended on being aware of exactly who was watching, listening, taking notes, and behaving as if they weren’t. She hadn’t realised, perhaps until this very moment, that that feeling stirred both of her partners in the same maddening, intoxicating way it did her. 

She stepped between Napoleon’s knees and his lips met hers firmly, single-mindedly. Her mouth parted under his lips when his hand, firm and strong, gripped the back of her neck. All the hunger she had seen in glimpses that evening was in his uninhibited, unchecked kiss. Napoleon, who was usually slyly paying attention to everything all at once, whose mind clicked along behind a disarming smile at a thousand miles a second, was focused on only one thing. 

Gaby’s hands were on either side of his face and she rested her knee on his thigh, tilting his head back, crowding him. Around them, she could hear the sounds of Illya closing the curtains, securing the perimeter. She and Napoleon both smiled, their kiss turning into a clash of teeth when they heard the deadbolt of the front door slide home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illya proves, in yet another fanwork, that he's painfully literal-minded.


End file.
